A Hetalian Carol
by Amazing Narwhal
Summary: Old Arthur Kirkland thinks Christmas is a waste of time, money and resources. He thinks it is a humbug and hates on anyone who thinks otherwise. But on one Christmas Eve, the ghost of his dead partner appears to him and warns him of what his fate could become. So with the help from the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet To Come, he tries to change into a better person.


This shall be my Christmas present to all my wonderful readers! This is a story based on A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

Scrooge- England/Arthur Kirkland

Marley- France/Francis Bonnefoy

Scrooge's Nephew- America/Alfred F. Jones

Scrooge's Clerk- Sweden/Berwald Oxenstierna

I will add more characters and introduce them in the beginning of the chapter they appear in.

I do not own Hetalia or ACC.

Francis was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, the chief mourner, and Arthur himself. There was no doubt about it: Old Francis was as dead as a doornail.

Not that I know what is particularly dead about a doornail; it is just a saying. If you ask me a coffin-nail would be the deadest piece of hardware in the industry. But it is a simile used by our ancestors, and so I shall repeat it again: Old Francis was as dead as a doornail.

Did Arthur know he was dead? Of course he did! He and Francis were partners for who knows how long. Arthur was his sole executor, his sole administrator. his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and his sole mourner. And although Arthur was not so incredibly depressed by Francis' death, he was an excellent businessman on the day of the funeral, and made it solemn with a bargain, no doubt.

The mention of Francis' funeral has brought me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Francis was dead. This must be understood, in order to have something wonderful come out of this story. So you, the reader, must understand that Francis was dead, not alive.

Arthur never painted out Francis' name. There it stood, years and years after the latter's death, above the warehouse door: Kirkland and Bonnefoy. The firm was known as Kirkland and Bonnefoy. Sometimes, people who were new to the business called Arthur Arthur, and sometimes Francis; he answered to both. It was all the same to him. Business was business.

He was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Arthur was (which means he was a penny-pinching slave driver). He was a cruel and cold man, selfish, self-contained, and solitary as an oyster, or a hermit. The cold from inside him froze his features, nipping his nose, stiffening his gait, made his eyes red and lips blue, and he spoke out in an angry British accent. His poor eyebrows, in an attempt to keep the face it was on warm, grew larger and larger, nearly covering Arthur's dull green eyes. He carried his own aura of coldness, chilling his tea and his burnt-out scones, and it didn't thaw one degree on Christmas.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to ask him how he was, or if he would come to see them. Beggars never asked him for money, and little children never asked him what time it was, and no man or woman ever asked him how to get anywhere. Even the blind peoples' seeing-eye dogs seemed to know him, and when they saw him, they would tug their owners into doorways and across the streets, trying their best to stay away from Arthur.

But Arthur didn't care at all! It was exactly as he wanted it to be. He called it "splendid isolation": being left alone and enjoying it. He wanted to warn all human sympathy directed towards him to stay away, and keep its distance, and all the knowing ones called him nuts for that.

Now the story begins. Once upon a time, Christmastime, to be exact, old Arthur sat in his counting-house, busy even on Christmas Eve. The weather was cold, bleak, and biting, foggy and withal, and he could hear the people in the street outside, walking back and forth, beating their hands upon their chests, and stamping their feet on the pavement to warm them. The clock had just chimed 15 hundred (which is 3 in the afternoon), but it was pretty dark outside, like it had been all day, and candles were lighting up the windows of the neighbouring offices. The fog came pouring in through every chink in the wall, every keyhole, and was dense that, although the street wasn't too wide, the houses on the opposite sides were mere shadows and outlines.

Arthur was sitting in his office, the door cracked slightly opened so he could keep an eye on his clerk, Berwald, who was copying letters in front of a very small fire, barely much of a candle. He could not replenish it if it went out, for the coalbox was in Arthur's room, and if berwald came in and asked for some, Arthur would to fire him. So the clerk tugged his comforter on tighter and smiled at the picture of his "wife" on his desk, trying to warm himself in front of his "fire".

"Merry christmas Uncle Artie! God save you!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Arthur's nephew, Alfred, who barged into Arthur's office and brought in the cold air from the outside.

"Bah!" said Arthur. "Humbug."

Alfred's face was ruddy and was flushed from the cold outside and his bright blue eyes sparkled in the dim light of the room.

"Christmas? A humbug?" asked Arthur's nephew. "You don't mean it, right?"

"I do, you git." replied Arthur. "Merry Christmas? What right do you have to be merry? You are poor enough as it is, spending all your money on getting married and eating your disgusting American food."

"If I am poor enough," returned the nephew gaily. "Then you have absolutely no right to be all sad and gloomy on Christmas. You're rich enough."

Arthur had no scorning answer ready at the moment so he just said "Bah! Humbug." again.

"Oh don't be cross you old-timer." said the nephew.

"What else can I be," returned the uncle, "when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas?! Christmas is just a time to pay bills when you have no money and entering a new year, but not having any more money than you did the last year. If I could have my own way, any wanker who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips should be boiled in his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart." Arthur said, scoffing at Alfred.

"But Uncle!" pleaded Alfred.

"But Nephew!" returned Arthur sternly. "You celebrate Christmas your own way, and let me celebrate it in mine."

"Celebrate it? But you don't celebrate it!" Alfred exclaimed, raising his arms above his head.

"Then let me leave it alone then. Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you." He said, grumbling at his nephew.

"There are many things that I might have gotten good things from, and still have gotten money, but Christmas is among that rest. I've always thought of Christmas as a good time, a kind, forgiving, charitable ("I'm surprised you know what that word means"), pleasant time; the only time of the year that people seem to become more open and kind to one another, and to think of the people below them as if they were equals on their way to the same destination and not just an alien race on their way on other journeys. In conclusion, uncle, although Christmas hasn't given me a single penny, I believe it has done me good, and will do me good, and so I shall say: God bless it, and God bless America!"

Berwald, who was still huddled in front of his fire at front, started clapping after the inspirational speech of Alfred's, but once he realized that his job was in jeopardy, he stopped, poked his "fire", and extinguished the last spark forever.

"If I hear another sound from you and you'll stay home for Christmas by losing your job! Ungrateful wanker." He scolded the clerk, then turned to his nephew. "And you are quite a powerful speaker. I wonder why you don't go into Parliament."

"Oh don't be angry, Uncle Artie ("Call me that again and I'll-") Come and dine with us tomorrow!"

"I'll go and see you when you get mad or leave me alone." He said.

"But whyyy?" cried Alfred. "Why?"

"Why did you get married to Sakura?" Arthur asked.

"Because I fell in love with her."

"Because you fell in love!" growled Arthur, as if falling in love was as ridiculous as a merry Christmas. "Goodbye."

"Nope. I'm not leaving until you say you'll come over tomorrow." said Alfred, planting his hands on Arthur's desk. "You've never came before, so why give it as a reason for not coming now?"

"Goodbye." Arthur said, trying to return to his work and ignoring Alfred and his filthy hands on his desk.

"C'mon. I only want us to be friends uncle."

"Goodbye."

"Geez, old man. You make me sad that you seem so resolute. We never fought before, so I don't know why you won't be friends with me. But I've decided to keep wishing you a Merry Christmas, and I'll do it 'til the end. Merry Christmas Uncle Artie!"

"Goodbye!"

"And a Happy New Year!"

"Goodbye!"

Alfred left the building without an angry word or a furrowed brow, smiling as he walked past Berwald the clerk, wishing him a merry Christmas before walking out into the cold.

"Of course," muttered Arthur. "My clerk is also a cheerful fool. This world is too full of fools. He is working for fifteen pounds a week, and he has a wife and a son to take care off, yet he is still talking about a merry Christmas. What a git."

The "lunatic", according to Arthur, let Alfred out and let two more people in, who came asking for donations to the poor.

"Hello there good sir." said one gentleman. "Are we talking to Mr. Kirkland or Mr. Bonnefoy?"

"Mr. Bonnefoy has been dead for seven years now. He died seven years ago, on Christmas Eve." Arthur said.

"I am sorry to hear that. I am sure that as his partner, you are continuing to represent his generosity." The gentleman said, making Arthur cringe at the word "generosity". He and Francis were the opposite of generous, and anyone who knew them knew that. "As you know, it is Christmastime, and we feel as though it is our duty as the people to give some money to the poor and needy, who suffer greatly at this time. Many are in need of common necessities that both you and I have, and are in want of common comforts that we have easy access to."

"Don't we have prisons? Or workhouses, or the Treadmill and the Poor Law?" asked Arthur in a slightly worried voice.

"Yes, we do have all those, although I wish I can say that we do not." One of the gentlemen said.

"Oh that is good. I was afraid something awful happened to them or that they were out of business. I am glad to hear that they are still working." Arthur said.

"Yes. Well, a few of us want to try and buy some food for the poor and means of warmth. How much shall you donate?" Asked a gentleman.

"Nothing!" said Arthur.

"Nothing? Do you wish to remain anonymous?"

"No. I wish to be left alone." said Arthur. Since you asked me what I wished, then gentlemen, I wish to be left alone. I do not make merry at Christmas and I can not- shall not- make lazy and idle people merry. I am already supporting a great number of businesses and if the poor cannot afford any of the things they need, then they should go there."

"Many can't, and many would rather die."

"If they would rather die," pondered Arthur, "then they had better hurry up and decrease the population. Now, goodbye gentlemen!"

When the men found Arthur unbudgeable, they shrugged and left the building, leaving Arthur to continue his work.

Meanwhile, the fog continued to grow thicker and thicker, obscuring the view of those who were out on the streets and chilling them to their very bones. At the corner of the street, a group of homeless people gathered around a makeshift campfire, trying to warm themselves up and keep from freezing. The shops around them seemed warm and cozy, their owners trying to sell their goods before the day was up, and the Mayor, in his large mansion, was ordering his cooks and butlers to make the mansion merry and glad for Christmas Day.

Arthur was still sitting on his desk at his counting-house, trying to ignore the cheerful sounds emanating from outside. As he continued working, the sound of a caroler outside his window was heard by Arthur.

"We wish you a Merry Christmas

We wish you a Merry Christmas

We wish you a Merry Christmas

And a Happy New Year!" sang the caroler.

"Go away and leave me alone you wanker!" Arthur yelled, scowling at the boy through the window. He pouted but left, grumbling about how unfair Mr. Kirkland was but has heard enough stories about him that kept him away from getting the money he should have earned.

Soon, the time to close the counting-house arrived, and with a grumble, stood from his chair and walked over to his clerk by the front door, who instantly snuffed out the candle he was using for light and put his hat and coat on.

"I'm guessing you'll want to have all day off tomorrow, wouldn't you?" He asked Berwald.

"'f its c'nv'nient s'r." said Berwald.

"Well it isn't. It is not convenient nor is it fair." said Arthur. "Although if I were to pay you to stay here you would feel ill-used, wouldn't you?"

Berwald shrugged.

"Well you don't think me ill-used when I pay a day's wages for no work."

"Its 'nly onc' a year." The clerk observed.

"And what a good excuse to pick a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December!" said Arthur, buttoning up his coat all the way up to his chin. "But I suppose you will get all day. But you have to be here much earlier the next morning."

Berwald nodded and promised that he would, and Arthur walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he had no coat), started his walk home, nodding to the other people on the streets and wishing them a Merry Christmas.

Arthur went to his usual tavern and ate his usual lonely dinner there, and after reading all the newspapers and grumbling about the news, he went home to bed. He lived in what used to be Francis' home, which was gloomy and dark now that Arthur lived there. When Francis was alive, the smell of roses emanated from his house and could be smelled from miles away, and occasionally, Arthur will get a whiff of the scent, bringing back memories of his old partner.

Now it is a fact that there was nothing spectacular about the knocker on the door, except that instead of a lion or a tiger or another majestic animal, it was a bunny. Not that Arthur had a problem with it. His problem was that although Arthur saw it every morning and every night ever since he started residing in Francis' house, he has always known what it looked liked, and never questioned or cared about its existence. Arthur was a very logical man, not believing in aliens like his nephew, or ghosts like most people nowadays. So explain to me, dear reader, how the knocker, without undergoing any process of changing, became not a knocker, but Francis' face.

Francis' face. It wasn't in impenetrable shadow like the other objects in the yard were, but was in the light of a distant street lamp that shone on it. It didn't look angry or ferocious; it looked just like how Arthur remembered Francis used to look: his long, wavy blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, which stirred cautiously although there was no wind. His once bright blue eyes were dull and gray, but were wide open and staring intently at Arthur, who was frozen in shock at the door.

As Arthur stared at the phenomenon, it turned back into a knocker.

To say he was not startled or that he had not been scared would be a lie. But, being the logical man he is, he took out his key, put it in the lock, turned it, and entered the house.

He did pause, however, before he shut the door, and cautiously checked behind it as if he were expecting to see Francis' ponytail on the other side. But there was nothing on the other side besides the screws and nuts that held the knocker in place, and so he scoffed at himself. "Of course there's nothing there. The bloody frog has been dead for seven years and will stay dead for seven hundred more." He said, walking through the door and closing it behind him with a bang.

Arthur, being the cautious and paranoid person he is, walked throughout the house, checking the rooms to see if anything had been stolen. After he was done checking, he went up to his room, double-locking himself in, like he always does, and changing into his dressing-gown and slippers, putting on his nightcap, then sat down by the fire.

While sitting on the low fire, he stared at the fireplace, which was made by an some Dutch merchant a long time ago, and was made to depict the Scriptures. After a while of staring at it, he got bored and stood up and started pacing the room.

"Humbug!" said Arthur, and walked across the room.

After several turns, he sat down again, and stared at a bell that hung in the room. It was a bell that was probably used for communication back when there were servants who worked in the house, but it hasn't been used since before Francis moved in. Imagine Arthur's surprise when the bell started to swing, slowly and softly, making a quiet ringing sound that soon crescendo-ed louder until it echoed through the house and made the other bells ring.

This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but to Arthur, it felt like forever. The bells ceased to ring as suddenly as they had begun, and in their place, a clanking noise, deep down below, as if someone was dragging a heavy chain up the stairs, was heard. Arthur remembered at that moment that some stories say that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains.

"This is a humbug," said Arthur." I refuse to believe in ghosts like my stupid nephew."

His complexion paled when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door that Arthur had double-locked less than ten minutes before. Upon its entrance, the dying flame leaped up, as if saying, "I know him! That's Francis' Ghost!"

The face was exactly the same. Francis in his usual bright purple coat that looked tattered and ripped, dark tights and black boots, the tassels on the latter bristling, and his blond hair in a ponytail that held it away from his face. Around his middle, a long chain was clasped. It was made of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent, and looking through his waistcoat, he could see the two buttons on his coat behind.

Arthur didn't believe what he was seeing, even though he could see it clearly; feel the chilling influence of its death cold eyes, and see the texture of the scarf that wrapped around his head and chin.

"What do you want with me, frog?" inquired Arthur.

"Much!"- It was Francis' voice, no doubt about it.

"Who are you?"

"Ask me who I was."

"Who were you then?" said Arthur, raising his voice.

"Do you not remember me, mon ami? It is I, your old partner back when I was alive, Francis Bonnefoy."

"Can you sit down?" asked Arthur, looking doubtfully at him.

"I can."

"Do it then, frog."

Francis nodded and went to sit down at the opposite side of the fireplace, as if he were used to it.

"You don't believe in me, mon cher." observed the ghost.

"No. I don't."

"Why not? You see me right here, in front of you?"

"I don't know, you wanker."

"Why do you doubt your senses?"

"Because little things affect them a lot. A slight disorder of the stomach can make me hallucinate. You could be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are." said Arthur. Francis frowned and reached up to the knot that tied the scarf around his head in place and pulled on it, and his jaw fell, all the way down past his waist and to his feet, as though he had just seen a beautiful woman (or man).

"Oh my goodness!" yelled Arthur. "Bloody frog! Put that scarf back on!" He yelled, his green eyes wide.

"Do you believe me yet?" asked Francis, rewrapping the scarf.

"Yes."

"Good. For I have an important message to tell you. As you can see, my spirit still roams the earth and has not passed into the afterlife. For whenever I try to leave this place, my chains hold me back. This is the chain I had forged when I was alive. It represents all the wrongdoings I have done in my life." said Francis, holding on to the first metre of the chain.

"Tell me something that I actually care about, Francis." Arthur said, following the chain with his eyes, which didn't look like it ever ended.

"If you do not change your ways, you will end up like me: wandering the earth forever, never to leave and find rest."

"How will I keep myself from ending up like you, frog?"

"I have always hated that nickname, mon cher lapin." said Francis' ghost. "But in order to change your fate, you will be visited by three Spirits. Expect the first one tomorrow, when the bell tolls one in the morning."

"Do I have to take them all one by one?" Arthur asked.

Francis ignored him. "Expect the second one on the next night at the same hour, and the third on the next night when the last stroke of Twelve has ceased to vibrate. I must leave now, mon ami. Do not expect to see me again, and for your own sake, remember what we have talked about."

After he said the words, he took hold of his chain and, lifting it up as much as he can, walked over to the window in Arthur's room. He beckoned Arthur over, and pointed out into the street. There, Arthur could see a plethora of phantoms, walking around streets, wanting to help the living but unable to. The sight was miserable, and Arthur looked away. When he did, he saw that Francis was gone, and so were the spirits outside. He walked to the door and found it double-locked, like it was when he came in, and was in a slight daze as he walked to his bed and, without undressing, fell on it and slipped into sleep.


End file.
